


Craved

by unfoldingbliss



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfoldingbliss/pseuds/unfoldingbliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loneliness was something Rick had grown accustomed to [Richonne]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Craved

Loneliness was something Rick had grown accustomed too.

Not in the way most would think of it, however. Or at least, not in the way people _used_ to think about it. He was sure that the others in his group - like Carol or Herschel or even Daryl now - knew exactly what he was referring to. The numb fingers, the dull heartbeat, the endless and restless nights...it all came from losing someone dear in this terrible hellhole. Yes, he had Carl and his daughter and he couldn't thank God enough for keeping them in his life every zombie-infested day. But in return, not only had he lost his once best friend to death and insanity, his wife...his wife was gone as well.

And when he meant gone, he really meant gone. There were no more visions of her in clean clothes or a white gown, gently rubbing her round belly. Her smiles had vanished; her kind eyes no longer lingering in the hallways of the prison or outside the gates. It was a sign and he knew it (it had to be), but he couldn't help but feel - well - _empty_ after relying on her to guide him for so long.

He had his friends and the remaining Woodbury survivors to keep him company. Which wasn't bad since he could be outside the security of the concrete prison walls, fending for himself, Carl, and a baby out in the forest. And they were all so good to him; especially considering the turmoil he had caused them when his episodes and visions occurred. Glenn was still supportive, Carol was still kind, and Daryl was still a quiet presence to sit next to during meals. He couldn't wish for better friends or imagine life without all these people in any way.

Yet...the wrenching, silent pain would come crawling back into his skin at a moment's notice, and he would have the audacity, for a minute or two, to believe he deserved more. More than his friends and Carl and his baby. More than saving the Woodbury residents and defending them against the tyranny of the Governor. What that more was, however, was something he had yet to fully comprehend.

Okay, no. He was shitting himself. That "more" his mind kept pressing him towards had a lot to do with the intimate relationship between a husband and wife. Nothing like sex or anything of that nature (because really, when the dead were roaming the earth and unless you were really turned on, the least of your worries was getting laid). No…what he had in mind, what he fantasized and dreamed about (when he did dream, anyway) were touches. A soft caress on his shoulder, fingers winding themselves around the jut of his hip bone…that's what he wanted. What he _craved_. His wife had done that every so often, even when he continued to push her away. It kept him calm, sane _\- human_. So of course, when she died, that went away along with her. In all honesty, he might miss that more than the visions and the clear look of her serene face.

He be damned if he told anyone about it, though. Not even Herschel was a viable option. Sure, the man would understand, but they rarely talked about his late wife and his relationship with her as is. Carol had lost a spouse, too, but everyone knew by now that her marriage was on a whole different playing field. And, really, she had Daryl. A subtle, blossoming little thing, but it was far more than Rick could say he possessed. She was allowed to rub his back or lean on his shoulder; she had someone to be, for lack of a better word, intimate with. Glenn had Maggie and Herschel had both his daughters to hold…even his new companion Tyreese still had his sister Sasha. Again, he really shouldn't be complaining – he had Judith and he had Carl (and he was going to make that boy see the light again, _he would_ ). They should have been more than enough. They _were_ more than enough.

But they weren't.

"You gonna eat anymore?" Michonne tilted her head towards his plate of beans and possum meat, eyes hinting at the slightest worry, "I don't think I saw you eat breakfast this morning."

It took him a while to respond, stare glued to his fork caked in bean juice. Michonne had become another mealtime companion of sorts, or at least she was whenever it was Daryl or Glenn's turn to take watch. Almost everyone else had finished by now, Beth and Maggie making their way to clean the dirty dishes in the sink. "I….I don't think I did."

"You don't think?" Michonne repeated, scooping the last bits of meat from her own plate and pushing it into her mouth, "Or you don't remember? _Or_ are you trying to play me for a fool?"

That last bit sounded a bit too hostile for his taste, causing him to blink away from his plate and direct his attention towards her. He should have known better by now. As soon as his eyes found hers, the corner of Michonne's lips twisted into a barely-there smile, a playful gleam flickering across her gaze. He felt like she almost had to resist laughing, the way she leaned in close, guarding her face as she took a hold of his fork.

"Now, for some reason," Michonne started, stirring up his food into a stew-like substance, "Everyone thinks of you as the leader, even if that's not what you want. You're _de facto_ as some would have called it before. Which means, if you're not going to eat, that doesn't bode well for the others that look to you for guidance. Or for your health. Got it, sheriff?"

For one heart-throbbing second, Rick seriously considered the frivolous (and somewhat scandalous) idea that she was going to _feed_ him the rest of his lunch. He'd been fed before, but by dates and girlfriends and his wife…Michonne was not ( _definitely not_ ) -

And before he knew it, she put the fork down, grabbed her plate, and stood up, using his shoulder to ease off the bench. The hold was firm, strong…nothing like Lori's. But there was something else there as Michonne let her touch loiter, giving his collarbone a teasing squeeze before releasing her grip and heading towards the Greene sisters.

It didn't last long and it's not like she did it every day. But…from time to time, Michonne would give him that same lively, comforting clasp of her hand and it would put Rick at ease. Told him everything would be alright. He and Carl and his daughter and Glenn and Herschel and Carol – all of them would make it through.

That first touch, the first of many, kept Rick up at night when he was huddled under the raggedy sheets in his dark prison cell. Made him consider, for the first of many more times to come, what life without Lori could really be like.

And try as he might, he couldn't deny the touch he craved.


	2. Comfort

At first, Michonne believed the gleam that passed over Rick's eyes whenever they fixated on her was subconscious mistrust. Yes, Rick did say she was one of them; that there had been something else that kept him from feeding her to the walkers (whatever _that_ meant). However, he was still uneasy and unstable at times, looking around the prison and the new Woodbury survivors as a child would observe animals in a zoo. While not haunted, he appeared lost, stateless. And nothing made a man more unhinged than loss. Terrible, gripping loss that sunk into your bones and pricked at every fiber of your muscles, trying its best to pull you inside out.

Michonne would know; she still did know. Her wounds, now, were fresher than his.

Every night, when she willed her body to lie down and sleep, was spent on dreams of Andrea. Simple stuff, when she thought about it. Things they would have done before the apocalypse, had they been friends: like walks in the park or trips to the beach, double dates and Sunday brunches up on some ritzy golf resort. The dreams were peaceful, serene even. And every damn night, Michonne fell for them like a moth near a bonfire. She knew, _knew_ that the visions weren't real - that Andrea was dead and she wouldn't be coming back, especially to a world where everything was peachy keen. But it would appear that Michonne's psyche was just that desperate to deny the fact her best friend was gone from this hellhole, leaving Michonne to deal with the shattered pieces of her unraveling.

This was what Rick had gone through. Was _still_ going through, in ways. So, she figured, that look Rick gave her every so often? Had to be distrust. _Had_ to. What else would it be? She may not have said much, but she'd been quite clear how much Andrea meant to her. Like with that man Morgan, Rick was seeing himself in her as she had with him. Which, most knew by now, was a bad sign.

And so, Michonne's thoughts wandered, pondering on how could she tell Rick, _show_ him she was on his side completely? That with her, he was safe and so were his people? She'd proven so much to him and the others already - what else would provide comfort and peace of mind?

The touches started out as accidents, really. She wasn't giving too much consideration to the consequences when she squeezed his shoulder to pull herself the bench, hoping her little pep talk would be enough to instill in him a desire to eat. The feel of his weathered shirt and warm skin underneath would have been forgotten soon enough, had he not followed her off the bench, asking if she needed any help with counting the ammo for the day. She would have objected, believing this to be another one of Rick's ways of keeping an eye on her, ensuring she didn't do anything foolish, but...

The gleam was still there. Yet something about it had changed ever so slightly. A small burst of of new momentum flooded his brown eyes, making them warmer, softer, _gentler_. They weren't as calculated or as perceptive. She guessed the right word would be... _unguarded_.

"Yes, Rick," Michonne nodded, hoping the surprise and elation she felt was not evident. She'd done it. She'd found a way to reach out to Rick Grimes and truly show him she _was_ one of them; she definitely wasn't going to let that go, "Let's see how many bullets your boy Tyreese wasted today."

And Rick, for what could have been the first time that week, chuckled, flashing a smile so rare that Michonne had to pause to appreciate it. This...she could get used to this side of Rick Grimes.

The touches weren't frequent. Nor were they planned. Michonne just happened to give them whenever she felt compelled to do so. A pat on the back after a successful food run, a tug on the arm during group meetings, or even a brief hold of his hand after yet another fight with Carl. Rick needed to know someone saw _and_ heard him struggling to live, watching him embrace the weight of enormous responsibility bestowed to him. Over time, she came to understand that Rick truly did appreciate her touches, if the way his eyes grew softer and face brighter around her were evidence enough.

And yet, she also discovered over the next few weeks that the touches were just as much a comfort to her as they were to him. Soon, the dreams of Andrea at the movies or in a pool lessened, and her sleep became what it should be: _sleep_. Her eyes were less weary, her muscles less sore...she was healing. Moving on. Starting over once again.

She wanted to tell Rick about it, but was afraid that if he suspected an ulterior motive to her intimacy, she would be right back at square one. Unwilling to suffer the consequences of such a conversation, Michonne decided to keep quiet about her dreams and Andrea for now, anticipating there would be a time when Rick not only considered her a fellow survivor and companion, but a friend.

Still, there was something lingering at the edge of her fingers every time she laid a hand on Rick now. Something she, despite her hardened exterior, was scared to decode. Why was it, when she released her grip on his shoulder or arm or hand, she felt the sudden instinct to latch back on and revel in the warmth and security the touch had offered? It was all odd, strange even to Michonne. Perhaps she wasn't as far along as she thought she was.

It was in one of those instances on their way to their respective prison cells, when her fingertips throbbed at the eventual release and Michonne could have whimpered had she been a lesser woman, that Rick took the initiative and took her hand back, giving it a firm squeeze for reassurance that, no, it was not a mistake.

"Rick," Michonne's voice wavered slightly and she cursed at herself for sounding so childish already, "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he countered, eyes cast down and the majority of his body turned away, "I...needed your touch a little while longer. That's all."

"Oh," was all Michonne had the nerve to say. Did this mean Rick had been having similar feelings too? What did that mean for him? For them?

Thoughts scattered and frantic, Michonne almost missed it when Rick turned back to meet her gaze, eyes shaded a soft black from the still night. That same look was there: the one that was warm and soft and kind. But now, something else was lighting them up, stirring the blood at the pit of her stomach. Something pressing, earnest -

_Oh._

"Is something wrong?" Rick asked, tone laced with worried as he loosened his hold, "I'm sorry if it bothers you that I - I thought since you've been doing it for awhile now, it would be alright if I returned the favor."

"No," Michonne shook her head, "Everything is fine. I just...I have to go now. I'll see you in the morning."

And for the first time since the first touch, Rick's eyes dulled as she pulled away, her steps up the stairs and down the hall just a little quicker than necessary. Her heart raced, her head spun, and her fingers continued to throb. Sleep would assuredly allude her that night, and maybe even the night after.

Where else but in the solitude of her cell would she be able to process the mere fact Rick Grimes wanted her?


	3. Ready

_Shit,_ Rick cursed at himself as he peeled his gaze away from Michonne's distancing form _. Dammit, did I screw that up_.

Everything had been going well. More than well, actually. The touches were becoming frequent, drawn out, meaningful…not just pats on the backs or quick shoulder squeezes as they'd been before. There was a depth to them that Rick couldn't yet explain – he just knew he wanted – no _, needed_ – them. And she had appeared so withdrawn, as if she too was trying to find a way to keep her hand in his as long as possible. So, he just took it back. Sure, it was different when he considered that was the first time he initiated contact, but he thought she might have liked it. For him to be bold enough to take what he wanted. Wasn't that what this was about anyway? She had been reassuring him all this time, right? To move on, to heal? Why…why couldn't he reassure her for once?

The questions haunted him throughout the whole of night, his body stirring in-and-out of sleep every twenty minutes or so. Of course, just when he'd been getting more than four hours a night, this happens. He decides to play Casanova and Michonne runs for the hills. Typical.

_Almost feels like high school, really_ , Rick thought as morning sunlight trickled into the barred windows above, _Who would have guessed it, huh_?

The inquiry was directed more at himself than anything else, but he couldn't help but wonder what Lori would think of all of this, wherever she was. Would she be applauding him for trying to move on with his life, to escape the memories they had shared together, ones that tormented him in the most unexpected of circumstances? Or would she scorn him, scream how could he want something else while she was nothing but bits of bones and he had both Carl and the baby to keep safe from the monsters persistent at every corner?

He would like to think it was the prior, but they never really discussed what life would be like if one of them was widowed. And, besides, everyone told their beloveds that they wanted them to be happy should they die before their time. But, did they want them to be the happiest they could be, or just happy enough to always yearn for their return?

"Rick," a gruff voice knocked at his cell and Rick attempted to shake away the clattering thoughts, "You up? It's almost seven."

"Yeah, yeah," Rick replied, sitting up on the bed, "I'm up, Daryl. Just you and me for the morning rounds?"

"Sasha's up – said she wants to come," Daryl said, leaning against the doorframe, "You look like hell, by the way."

His lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, but it vanished by the time Rick stood up and joined Daryl out in the hall, "Thanks. That's always how I want to start my morning. Maybe if we come across a few walkers, they won't know the difference."

Daryl snorted in response, taking the lead and walking towards the kitchen space, "Too bad you don't take the morning shifts more often then."

Sasha met the pair soon enough, a handgun and a knife strapped along her waist, "Morning. What's for breakfast?"

"What do you think is for breakfast?" Daryl asked, crooking an eyebrow, "Take a wild guess."

Sasha rolled her eyes at the older man, eyes flickering every which way for an empty bowl, "Don't you know how to make polite conversation?"

"It's seven," Daryl replied, "I don't make _polite_ conversation until lunch, especially if all I've had to eat is chicken feed."

Sasha laughed while she tossed him and Rick bowls, taking out a box of granola cereal from the cupboards, "Well, _I'm_ a morning person. Always have been and always will be. Just splash some water on my face and I'm ready to start the day."

She filled up her bowl first before offering it up to the other two, taking a seat on the other side of Rick, "What about you, sheriff? How did you start your mornings?"

He could have easily lied to her, and maybe then his mind wouldn't have wandered to recollections of a life stolen away all too quickly. Yet, it had been a long while since he told a flat-out lie. Why start now? "Kissing the top of my wife's head as I headed to the shower. Was the only thing keeping me going some days."

The younger woman nodded, a soft smile reaching her eyes. Sasha hadn't known Lori, but she had heard stories from Carol and Maggie, "That's good to know. Relationships like that were hard to find – _are_ hard to find. At least you got to experience it for a time."

"Yeah," Rick said as he stirred the granola around in his bowl, "I did."

The morning round soon grew the quiet after that, minus the occasional quip slipping between Daryl and Sasha. Rick didn't pay much attention to what they said – his concentration still dawdled on the conversation at breakfast, mingling in with his thoughts of Michonne and the touch that ran her off. Doubt, as it always did when it came to Rick and women, crept into his skin and sunk into his veins. He knew what he wanted, but truth was, did he really deserve to have it? To have any kind of intimate relationship with another woman, where he shared his secrets and held her hand? What would the others say if they discovered his intentions towards Michonne? Would they scorn him, advise him? Would they even care?

"Yo, fearless leader, you in there?" Sasha snapped her fingers in front of his face, snapping him out of the self-questioning. His vision blurred for a moment or two before it focused onto Sasha's scrunched up nose, "You look a little pale; is breakfast battling it out with your stomach?"

"Probably," Daryl answered for him, opening the doors to their cell block, "Like I told you before – ain't nothing good comes from eating chicken feed."

"Then how come you seem to be okay?" Sasha countered.

"Easy," the doors rattled open and Daryl pushed it forward, "I'm just made of the hard stuff."

Sasha snorted, but gave no further comment as she caught sight of Tyreese and Karen. A quick wave goodbye to Rick and Daryl and she was off chatting away with the pair, going over the details of their round.

"Just like a bird, that one," Daryl shook his head, "Don't know how she can stay so chipper in all of this."

"Comes natural to some," Rick replied, scanning the tables for any sign of Michonne, "Maybe even a self-preservation tactic. We all deal with tragedy differently."

His companion let out a rough sigh, but he said nothing else on the subject as his eyes locked onto Carol feeding Judith, "You want me to check on asskicker? I don't see Carl around."

Damn, he was right. Carl wasn't anywhere to be seen and it was nearing lunchtime. Usually, that meant only one thing.

"He went outside," Rick sighed, letting out as much breath as he could, " _Again_. Probably up on one of the bridges. Let me go check."

"Alright, brother," Daryl said, taking out a few bullets from his pocket and handing them to Rick, "Just in case you get in a little more trouble."

"Thanks," Rick slid the bullets into his chest pocket, "I'll be back."

The trip to the main bridge took no more than a minute or so, the way Rick practically broke into a sprint halfway through. This would be the fifth time Carl went out of the confines of the block and explored the prison on his own. Sure, he was more than qualified, but everyone had to be sent out in pairs. No exceptions. Hell, if he wanted it so bad, maybe he should have asked –

"Michonne?" Rick croaked out as soon he pulled open the bridge door, the color draining from his face as she turned towards him. Damn…he hadn't expected this, "What are you doing out here?"

"What you should be," Michonne replied, pointing her thumb out at the prison yard, "He's not doing anything; just looking out onto the fields."

Rick blinked once or twice before realizing who she was referring to. His eyes grazed the prison yard below him and sure enough, there was his son, watching the walkers out on the empty fields. He sat with his hands dangling from his knees, back slouched and face blank.

"How long has he been out here for?" Rick asked, "How long have _you_ been out here for?"

"He's probably been here an hour more than I have," Michonne answered, "When I didn't see him at breakfast or with Beth and the baby in their cell, I knew he'd done it again. So, I just meandered outside and hoped he would come in sooner or later without me interfering."

"Carl needs to come in soon," Rick gripped the bars of the bridge, doing his best to keep his attention on his boy below and not the tension swarming in-between the two of them as he approached. There should've been more time for him to come up with a plan to talk to her; how to best get his feelings across without sounding too desperate. But wasn't that what he was? Desperate for something, _anything_ mirroring a relationship of close companionship and intimacy? And how could he explain that, truly, he didn't know why he wanted a relationship like that with her? "Lunch is about to be served. And Beth and Herschel will worry if he's not at the table with them."

"Give him a few more minutes," Michonne suggested, "He's bound to get hungry. Besides, there's only so much staring at those things before you get bored. He knows it'll be foolish for him to attack."

"Yeah…yeah, you're right," Rick agreed, "But just a few more minutes. I really don't need him out here more than he already has been."

"…You gonna talk to him afterwards?" Michonne asked and out of the corner of his eye, he could see her steal a hurried glance at his distressed face.

"Only thing I can do at the moment," Rick sighed, the temptation to grab out for her hand spiking as she slid it down to her waist pocket, "Unfortunately, I can't keep my eye on him 24/7. There are things that have to be done around the cells, and I can't slack off. Not with so many people depending on it."

Michonne hummed in response, leaning against the iron grid. Silence thickened around them, the faint noises of the walkers beneath barely registering in Rick's head. He knew he had to say something about last night. If there was anything he had learned in his endeavors since awakening at the hospital, it was that miscommunication killed, in one way or the other. It killed Shane, it killed Andrea, and it killed his sanity for a quite some time. Everything had to be out in the open; it was the only way to sustain real relationships nowadays.

"I…" Rick trailed, daring to turn his head and finally getting a good look at his friend. Dark circles hung below her red eyes, and her posture seemed to slack, as though she really did need that grid for support. Had her night been just as sleepless? "I wanted to talk to you about –"

"No," Michonne interrupted, the word crisp, "There's nothing we need to discuss about last night."

Rick bit back the _why?_ lodged in his throat, continuing to stare at the woman before him. Yeah, like it was going to be easy. Since when had it ever been? "Michonne, I just want to apologize. I didn't know you would be offended if I –"

"I wasn't offended," Michonne interrupted again, spinning on her toes and taking a few steps away from him, back turned, "And I wasn't scared either."

"Then, what was it?" Rick asked, hoping he wasn't pushing his luck, "I thought, since, you know…"

"No, Rick. I _don't_ know," her voice hissed out, frustrated, "I don't know anything much when it comes to you. All I've done is helped you along when you need it, but when was the last time we had _a real_ conversation? Like the ones you have with Glenn or Herschel or Carol? Just like I don't know anything about you, you don't know anything about me."

His stomach churned, her words prickling at his skin. She was right – they hardly spoke to one another. The touches had been, for a while, their main form of communication. A brush on the shoulder meant _how are you doing today?_ and a squeeze of the hand whispered _everything would be alright_. But, just like with the speaking bit, Rick didn't contribute much to those kinds of conversations. Last night had been the first time he had actively tried to communicate back, a frantic plea of _don't go, I need you_ burning into his fingers.

"I'd like to change that," Rick offered, cautiously approaching her, "The talking and getting to know one another part. You don't have to touch me or comfort me and I won't do the same if you're uncomfortable with it. I can't thank you enough for helping me out these last couple of weeks…and if you let me, I'd like to return the favor."

Oh, he knew he was pushing it then, but he just had to press his hand into her shoulders as gently as he could, a murmured _please_ lingering in the contact. She didn't pull away, at least not immediately. A moment or two passed, and then…

"Alright, Rick," Michonne relented, twisting back to meet his gaze. Her eyes were still red, but they seemed brighter than before, happier even, "That would be nice. To talk."

The swell in his chest shouldn't have been that breathtaking, but it indeed was. She wanted to talk, wanted to be a part of his life. It was more than he deserved.

And yet, in the dark corners of his heart that he didn't focus too much on at that precise moment, he still craved for more.

"Carl's gone back," Michonne tilted her head to the prison yard, directing Rick's attention. A door slammed, further emphasizing her point, "Maybe we should do the same. You look like you could use a few more bites to eat."

"You know, I was about to say the same thing about you," Rick replied, taking a step back to give her the lead.

A ghost of smile confirmed she appreciated the comment, and a touch on the forearm confirmed, for the most part, he was in the clear.

Both were ready to start again.


End file.
